


The Battle of London

by muppet8003



Category: The War of the Worlds - H. G. Wells
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Battle, Martians, Steampunk, Victorian, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22857514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muppet8003/pseuds/muppet8003
Summary: May, 1877. For the last five mouths, the British Military has fought a loosing battle against the Martian invaders. Now, with the Martians at the edge of London, the desperate defenders prepare for what could easily be their last stand.
Kudos: 4





	The Battle of London

Sergeant Debra Smyth aimed and fired her Tesla Rifle at the nearest Fighting Machine approaching her tree line. The eye patched NCO grinned as a bolt of lightning sprang forth from her weapon and struck the Martian tripod in the joint of one of it’s legs. As the tall vehicle stumbled like a man who’d just been tripped, several of Smyth’s soldiers took opportunistic shots of their own, repeatedly pelting the metal monstrosity with 1.21 gigawatts of electricity. The Fighting Machine pitifully bellowed for help and attempted to raise it’s Heat Ray toward it’s tormentors, but a chain reaction of small explosions was already ripping through the doomed machine. Smyth smirked in satisfaction.

“UuulllaAAHHH!”

Then she remembered there were seven other Fighting Machines, as well as dozens of the vaguely humanoid creatures that were used as infantry by the dominate Martian race. There was even a Handling Machine or two. Seeing two Fighting Machines raise their Black Smoke Dischargers to avenge their comrade, Smyth promptly hopped to her feet. “Time to go, ladies!”

The sergeant was thankful that whatever fool had decided women soldiers should wear skirts had at least had the good sense to make them short, with tight breeches underneath. This allowed Smyth and her red coated soldiers to flee quickly into the woods, weaving into the trees as they went. The two canisters fired after the fleeing troops where stopped relatively short, but Smyth knew from painful experience it was best to get as far away as possible, even with the hastily designed masks her unit had been issued.

The Martians began to fire their Heat Rays into the woods, sparking off a forest fire but luckily not inflicting any casualties. Once her troops were far enough away, Smyth ordered her platoon (the lieutenant had been reduced to a charred skeleton the day before) to form up and turned to her radiowoman. 

“Yorke, get the captain on the line.” Smyth ordered, then turned to a nearby private. “Livingstone, if you could fire your weapon from time to time, that’d be lovely.”

“Yes, sergeant,” the posh girl muttered, looking at her sergeant’s boots.

“Sergeant Smyth!” Yorke called, “The captain says orders have come down to pull back all the way to London.”

“Right then, off yer arses, dearies!” Smyth announced loudly. Her platoon’s fighting retreat had destroyed three Fighting Machines and killed quite a few Martian grunts, the sergeant felt they’d earned the right to call it a day. “We’ll link back up with the rest of the Regiment, then move on to London.”

The tired women helped one another back to their feet and moved toward their nation’s capitol, the Martians not far behind.

#*#*#

Private Thomas Farrier loaded his Martini-Henry Mk. II Rifle as he leaned against the earthen wall of his unit’s trench. To the cantankerous soldier’s left and right, dozens of other troops similarly prepared their weapons and took advantage of the brief lull in the fighting. Farrier worked the lever action of his weapon, loading an explosive bullet into the chamber and turned to his friends Mitchell, Ashton, and Stafford. “How many attacks are we up to, mates? Four since this mornin’?”

“That’s right,” Ashton muttered as he looked over his Steam Gun. Farrier could only describe the large contraption as a rapid fire blunderbuss, using steam rather then gunpowder to fling metal at very high velocity in the enemy’s general direction. “Think they’ll be back fer more?”

“Long as we’re still ‘ere, they’ll keep comin’,” Mitchell said simply.

“Too right, mate,” Farrier nodded. The four soldiers, along with the rest of their company, had been stationed in the trench network outside London a week before and had been fighting almost constantly ever since. The soldiers’ once fine red uniforms were now filthy and tattered and the men inside them were tired and hungry. By Farrier’s count, the company had managed to destroy seven tripods and killed at least fifty grunts.

“UuulllaAAHHH!”

Glancing up at the rolling bellow sounding from over the soldiers' trench, Stafford quickly climbed back onto the firing step. He peaked over the top and glanced back down at the others, “It’s killin’ time again, lads!”

Grumbling under his breath as several more horns sounded, Farrier climbed up beside Stafford and looking down range at the approaching Martians. “What’s the rush, you bastards? We got all day.”

The company’s three mortars opened fire first, followed by two Steam Gatlings, relatively safe from the Heat Rays in their pillboxes, and in turn by the riflemen and heavy weapons troops like Ashton. Farrier quickly fired two shots at the same Martian Grunt, blowing off it’s right arm and head, then ducked back into the trench along with his mates to avoid a retaliatory Heat Ray blast. He gritted his teeth at the sudden sharp increase in temperature. “Fuck, I ‘ate those damn things!”

Farrier was about to rise back up and fire a third shot. Before he could act however, his section leader, Corporal Barclay, rushed up to the Farrier and his friends and hastily announced, “Orders come down, lads, we’re pullin’ out!”

“Yer takin’ a piss, right?” a surprised Farrier asked.

“Cap’n says the line’s fallin’ apart,” Barclay explained, “We’re to pull back all the way to London.”

“Ballocks to that, we can ‘old ‘em right ‘ere.” Farrier argued. Moments later, a Heat Ray beam flew directly into the firing port of one of the pillboxes, blasting the entire structure to ruble. Moments later, a martian aircraft, nicknamed ‘Flying Whales’, flew overhead, destroying one of the beleaguered unit’s mortars with it’s own Heat Ray as it passed.

“You were sayin’, Farrier?” Barclay asked with a raised eyebrow.

#*#*#

Colonel Jonathan Griffith, an aging artillery officer, stood over a tactical map of London with his officers. The grey haired veteran cleared his throat and gestured to the map, “The brutes will be advancing from the west and the south, possibly the north as well. I want our heavy guns arrayed so they may cover all three directions if need be.”

“It will take time, but we’ll see it done, sir.” Major Addington replied. The massive artillery guns, as large as factory smokestacks, could be cumbersome to move, but were devastating once placed.

“Also, we’ll need field guns and light artillery on the city’s perimeter, but also positioned strategically in the streets of London itself.” Griffith continued.

“You really think the fighting will spill into the capital, sir?” another officer, Lt. Colonel Davenport asked worriedly.

“I won’t be surprised if the beasts barged into Buckingham Palace while the Queen’s at tea.” Griffith flatly stated.

“That’d be right rude of them,” someone muttered.

A few of the artillerymen chuckled at the comment, causing Griffith to take his gaze from his map for the first time since the meeting had begun. He looked over his glasses to scan his men and spoke. “Gentlemen, understand that this battle will be desperate and bloody...I pray that all of you will survive, but I don’t expect it. Nevertheless, we must fight to the last man if needs be, because the lives of everyone in London depend on it. Am I clear, gentlemen?”

“Yes sir.” the gathered artillerymen solemnly chorused.

#*#*#

Captain Edward Harrington stood back from the window of an abandoned house, his MH Mk. II at the ready as three Fighting Machines and nearly a hundred Martian infantry cautiously approached. Beside him, his much older Color Sergeant, Graham, glanced at the twenty four year old officer nervously. “They’re quite close, sir.”

“Timing is everything, Color Sergeant,” Harrington recited one of his first lessons from his grandfather, who’d served at Waterloo, “We’ll let them advance to pointblank range, then take them by surprise.”

Harrington had ordered his company and supporting artillery battery to spread out in various buildings in the London suburb and wait for his signal. It was nerve racking to simply stand and watch as the notoriously destructive alien behemoths marched directly toward him, but Harrington was certain his plan would work. Even so, in the back of his mind the novice officer couldn’t help wishing his father, a decorated colonel, hadn’t bought him a commission.

The shadow of the nearest towering machine passed over the captain’s building and he was at last convinced the Martians were quite close enough. “Right lads, open fire!”

Harrington, Graham, and the other soldiers in their building immediately began laying fire into the nearby Martian infantry, followed in short order by nearly a hundred other soldiers in nearby structures. Taken by surprise, the Fighting Machines frozen in shock for precious seconds the artillerymen, hidden in ruined shops, opened fire. Caught in the open, the alien foot soldiers quickly scattered, though many were cut down, before firing back with their handheld Heat Rays.

The nearest, most heavily damaged machine staggered wildly but none the less was able to let off a solid shot into one of the offending buildings, obliterating the front wall and igniting the entire building. The side door burst open and several nervous soldiers sprinted from the inferno into the street. Harrington shouted for his men to cover their comrades, but several were cut down in moments by the Martian infantry. 

A second building was similarly incinerated, though slightly more of the troops inside had managed to escape to new cover. Fortunately, by now the first tripod was a burning ruin, and another was badly damaged by the field guns. Additionally, many of their infantry had been cut down by their enemies. The Martians still could have wreaked a great deal of havoc on the bold humans, but the old adage about discretion and valor seemed to be an interplanetary concept. The least damaged Fighting Machine sounded retreat on its horn and the remaining Martian forces pulled back, using Black Smoke to cover their retreat.

Harrington hastily pulled on his mask, finding it sufficient but not exemplary at its task, and watched as the Martians withdrew. He loudly ordered his men not to waste ammunition firing after the invaders, having to shout to be properly heard through the mask, then turned to Graham.

“Seems you were right, captain,” the Color Sergeant complimented, his voice somewhat muffled by his mask. “Well done, sir.”

Harrington glanced past the larger, older man at one of the flaming buildings then back at Graham. “...thank you, Color Sergeant.”

“Cap’n!” the young officer’s radioman, Hale, called from the other side of the room. “Orders come in, sir. They’re pulling all remainin’ forces to London.”

“Right, thank you, Hale,” Harrington turned back to Graham and continued, “Color Sergeant, get the men organized. I want to head out for London as soon as possible.”

In short order, the remaining soldiers were organized, the wounded loaded into two salvaged wagons and the able marching. Harrington spared one more glance at the buildings that had become pyres for several of his soldiers and led his company toward London.

#*#*#

Henry Wells, a scholarly man who’d once hoped that his time as Prime Minister would pass in peace and quiet, was one of the few members of Parliament still in London. The tired politician sat to the left of Queen Victoria for a meeting about the state of the war and just how badly it was going. Victoria had sent most other members of the Royal Family abroad, mostly to Canada, but resolutely refused to leave herself. She was the Queen of England and so long as there was even a single English subject alive for her to rule over, she would not abandon it. Also in the room were Field Marshal Martin Ainsworth, and Dr Nikola Tesla. There was a portrait of Ambassador Colin Birkinhead, with a radio connecting the man to the meeting.

Once proper introductions had been made, Ainsworth cleared his throat and formerly begin the meeting. “Your Majesty, Gentlemen, Doctor, I regret to say the war effort has been going very badly. We’re barely holding the Martians in Exeter, Southampton has fallen, they’ve advanced as far north as York, Fighting Machines have been seen on the border of Wales, and now they’re at the outskirts of London. They also hold pockets in Cambridge and Norwich, though we do have them surrounded there.”

Wells ruefully shifted in his seat at the bleak news as Ainsworth paused to catch his breath. Once the Field Marshal’s news had fully sunk in, the old soldier continued, “At every turn, the Martian’s have caused massive loss of life...both military and civilian. Our soldiers have fought valiantly since the beginning, but the situation is quite dire. Our airships and ultralight fighters have proven near useless, picked out of the sky by Heat Rays or the Martians’ damned Flying Whales. Cavalry has similarly been met with disaster. Artillery and warships have been able to do considerable damage, I’m happy to say. The HMS Thunder Child destroyed three Fighting Machines by itself before being sunk. Traditional infantry tactics are futile, but officers on the ground have proven adaptable.”

“What forces do we have here in London, Field Marshal?” Victoria asked.

“We have six regiments to defend the city, Your Majesty; the Ladies Regiment, the 423rd and 161st Regiments of Foot, the Queen’s Guard and Life Guard, and the 56th Heavy Artillery Regiment. That this point...it’s actually more then most cities, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Field Marshal,” Victoria replied, just a hint of concern crossing her features.

With Ainsworth’s report complete, attention then shifted to Wells. The Prime Minister braced himself and conveyed the state of the government. “Things aren’t much better on the civilian side of things. The Martians have shown no quarter to civilians caught in the fighting. We conservatively estimate that as many as a hundred thousand people have been killed. There are many thousands more refugees fleeing the Martians all over the country, most attempting to reach the coast and flee abroad. We have shortages of anything you care to name, there have even been rumors of cannibalism. The government is on the brink of collapse, we’ve lost all contact with areas under Martian control and many lords and officials have fled the country.”

Wells briefly wondered if his cousin in Woking had managed to survive, then finished his report. “The Irish rebels have taken control of Dublin, declared Ireland an independent republic and that said republic is neutral in the war with the Martians, though loyalists are holding Belfast and several other northern cities. Canada is willing to take in refugees, but...it seems that the British Empire has decided that they don’t really NEED Great Britain. There is talk of forming a new government with New Delhi as it’s capital.”

“I’m afraid we can’t expect help from abroad either,” the voice of Birkinhead took over for Wells from beneath his portrait. “France, Germany, Russia, Spain, Astro-Hungary, and America have all made it clear that they will have no part in our conflict as well. Only Portugal and Belgium have expressed any desire to come to our aid.”

“And yet refugees are charged everything they have to get on a boat into France.” Wells muttered.

“We can take heart that there is one factor working in our favor.” Tesla spoke up for the first time. After his partnership with Edison soured, the inventor had been offered funding in exchange for weapons development by the British government. Since the Martian invasion, he’d been working nearly all hours of the day to find anything that could give Britain the upper hand.

“And what, pray tell, would that be, Dr. Tesla?” Wells asked.

“Bacteria,” Tesla explained, “Throughout human history, whenever one people is exposed to the diseases of another, the results are disastrous. One need only look at what happened when rats brought the Black Plague to Europe or when the Spanish made contact with the Red Indians. Now, since we’ve heard nothing about a new illness suddenly spreading like wildfire since the Martian Cylinders came down, even with their Red Weeds growing everywhere the invaders go, this leads me to believe the Martians live in a near sterile environment back on Mars. In which case, their inevitable exposure to even the most mild human pestilence will prove catastrophic for their invasion force.”

Wells and the others present contemplated Tesla’s findings and, while they seemed to make sense, found them less then reassuring. “Forgive me, Dr. Tesla,” to his credit, Ainsworth sounded sincere, “but waiting for the Martians to catch the sniffles seems like more of a last resort then a strategy.”

“It’s not without precedent,” Wells spoke up, “Medieval generals would fling the bodies of dead cattle over castle walls to spread disease within.” The Prime Minister then turned to the elderly monarch, “Your Majesty, given the dire situation, I think a public address from you is prudent, the people need assurance.”

“Agreed, Prime Minister. I know what my subjects need at this point in time,” Victoria said confidently, “I’m sure a man as well read as you is familiar with Plato’s concept of the Noble Lie.”

#*#*#

“Sergeant! The Queen’s on the line!” Yorke said, turning up the volume of her radio.

“Lef-tenant Calder, what’s ‘e want?” Smyth asked without looking up from her pipe.

“No, THE Queen.” Yorke insisted. That got the attention of Smyth and the rest of the platoon.

#*#*#

“Gather round, lads,” Farrier’s lieutenant, a man called Kensley, loudly beckoned, “Gather round, Her Royal ‘ighness is about to address the nation.”

“C’mon, mates,” Farrier muttered to his friends, “Let’s hear what Vicky’s got to say.”

#*#*#

“Colonel, sir,” Griffith’s aid, Lieutenant Altson said, gently tapping the grey haired man on the shoulder, “Queen Victoria is set to make a statement, sir.”

“Thank you, lef-tenant,” Griffith turned to those of his officers still in his command center, “Gentlemen, we’ve prepared our positions as best as we can. Now, let us hear our queen’s words.”

#*#*#

Harrington stood ramrod straight as he waited with his men to listen to the Queen’s statement. The captain presented the image of a proper young officer and gentleman. His red uniform was as well kept as could be expected, give the circumstances. His features were stoic and confident. Underneath it all, however, Harrington was desperately hoping his monarch would deliver good news.

#*#*#

“My Subjects, ours is truly a dark time. Never before has England seen such peril as what we now face at the hands of the Martian invaders. But take heart, for as terrible as the Martian may be, he cannot hope to stand against the might of the British Empire. Even now, our brave soldiers stand their ground from Exeter, to York, to London itself and forces mobilize from around the Empire to come to the aid of Mother England.

“Our Foreign allies have not sat idle either, I have personally been informed of pledges of foreign aid from across the Europe. The Martian, meanwhile, has no hope of retreat and has over extended his line of supply and reinforcement more then any other invader in history. These mistakes will cost him dearly. The Martian has shown no quarter in this war and nor shall we.

“And so, to the fighting men and women on the front and the brave citizens suffering under the Martian boot heel, take heart. The invader will be undone and defeated, either by our powerful weapons and military, or by the smallest things which God, in his wisdom, has place upon the Earth. Stand strong and resist the Martian with all that you have. 

“Make England proud.”

#*#*#

“You think that’s true, Sergeant?” Corporal Read asked, looking from Yorke’s radio to Smyth.

“Of course it is, luv, the Queen said it.” Smyth replied, gracing Read with a small smirk. The sergeant scanned her good eye over her soldiers, one blonde posh girl in particular, and address her platoon, “You heard her Majesty, lassies. Take up positions and be ready for the coming fight. Livingstone, you’re never to be anymore then two paces from me during this battle.”

#*#*#

Reassured by Victoria’s words, Harrington confidently turned to his company. “Alright, gentlemen, the Queen commands and we obey. Take up positions in the trenches and stand to.”

With a chorus of ‘Yes Sir.’ Harrington’s men swiftly moved into their earthen defenses, hopefully ready for the impending Martian attack to come.

#*#*#

In his years as an officer, Griffith had heard similar speeches from many leaders, political and military. Some had been completely sincere, some outright lies, and everything in between. Looking around the room, though, the colonel could see many of his officers had taken Victoria’s words to heart. As such, he kept his doubts to himself.

“Alright gentlemen,” Griffith began professionally, “Man your stations and be ready, the battle will begin straightaway.”

#*#*#

“What absolute ‘orse shit.” Farrier muttered, earning him a look from Barclay. Before anyone could respond however, the all too familiar sound of Martian horns sounded. Farrier and his comrades quickly rushed back into their trenches and took position on the firing steps, the invaders bellowing to one another all the while. Looking out over the landscape, Farrier saw Martian infantry and machines of all kinds gathering for an assault, several formations arrayed seemingly from one end of the horizon to the other. As the horns continued to blare to one another, Farrier steeled himself for the fight to come. 

“UuulllaAAHHH!”

“UuulllaAAHHH!”

“UUuuuullllllaaAAAAHHHHHH!”

All of their horns blaring in unison, the Martians began to advance steadily, many of the Fighting Machines letting loose a volley of Black Smoke. In her trench, Smyth quickly but grumpily pulled on her mask. Between her missing eye, the goggle vision of her mask, and the thick Black Smoke, the sergeant was rendered nearly blind. Still, it was better then death. 

Further down the line, Harrington ducked into his own trench as a Flying Whale flew overhead, strafing the defenses with it’s Heat Ray. The captain thanked God the Martians had only brought a few of the flying machines and peaked through his trench periscope, scanning across no-man’s-land at the encroaching invaders. Harrington repressed a shudder at the sight of the approaching Martian horde. “Make ready, lads, be prepared- to climb the firing step on my order.”

In his command center, Griffith listened carefully to the reports of Martian advance. Altson stood by his side, looking to his colonel for instruction, “What are your orders, sir?”

“They’re just marching right at us...it’s reckless, even for the Martians.” Griffith muttered

“Sir!” Altson pressed.

“All batteries fire when ready,” Griffith ordered, “Try to get the brutes in overlapping fields of fire, and concentrate on the machines.”

As explosive ordinance began to rain from the sky onto the Martian forces advancing on his trench, Farrier looked to Barclay for orders. The corporal seemed to cough in his mask and spoke. “Right, lads...aheh, be ready to...fire...”

Barclay stumbled off the firing step, Mitchell at his side immediately. The gangly soldier looked over his corporal briefly before looking back up to Farrier and the others. “His mask is fucked!”

“Get ‘I'm out of ‘ere!” Farrier ordered, Mitchell already half carrying Barclay down the trench, “I’ll lead the section.”

“Follow ya anywhere, wanker,” Stafford said, likely smirking behind his mask. Ashton nodded in agreement.

“Right lads, fix bayonets. We’ll need ‘em before all’s said and done,” Farrier drew and placed his own bayonet, just finishing when Mitchell suddenly returned, “What’re ya doin’?”

“Barclay’s dead.” Mitchell simply explained, angrily locking his bayonet in place.

As Farrier and his companions began to fire their opening shots of the battle, the Ladies Regiment had already let loose their first salvo. Livingstone dropped into cover as several handheld and full sized Heat Rays were fired back in turn. The blonde girl recoiled in horror as the body of Private Blackwood, burned to nothing but scorched bones from the waist up, landed back in the trench right beside her. Livingstone then felt a literal kick in her rump, turning to see Smyth looking down at her. “Can’t shoot any Martians down there, dearie.”

Livingstone took Smyth’s proffered hand and rose back up to look over no-man’s-land. As Smyth yanked off her mask, the Black Smoke having finally cleared enough to allow it, Livingstone took note of a particular Fighting Machine, “Sergeant, look at that one; it’s staggering about, almost like Father after too much wine.”

Smyth followed Livingstone’s gaze to see that one tripod did indeed seem unsure on it’s three feet. The sergeant further noticed a more composed Fighting Machine just to the right of the affected machine. “Nice one, soldier,” she compliment, then turned to Yorke and Read, to her right and Livingstone’s left respectively, “Yorke, Read, Livingstone, on my mark all of you fire on that wobbly machine’s front left leg...ready...mark!”

Four bolts of lightning blasted the afflicted Fighting Machine’s leg in rapid succession, causing the war machine to buckle, crashing into it’s nearby comrade and dragging the tripod and it’s surprised pilot down with it. Both machines fell to earth with a mighty crash, several surprised Martian grunts being crushed beneath the damaged Fighting Machines. Seeing the crash, several soldiers began to blast the downed tripods before they could disentangle themselves. In short order, both tripods were in flames, small explosions ripping through them.

It was a good start, and the artillery was doing damage as well, but Smyth couldn’t help the chill that ran down her spine at the sit of just how many Martian machines, soldiers, and aircraft were arrayed against her and her platoon. The sergeant would stand fast for the time being, but knew she’d have to be ready to withdraw.

Meanwhile, Harrington drew his Plasma Revolver after his MH Mk. II ran dry, firing two blue glowing rounds into a charging Martian grunt. The officer backed up nervously as the humanoid Martian troops rushed toward his trench, quickly closing the distance despite withering fire from the company’s Steam Gatlings. Their octopus like masters in the machines weren’t far behind.

The Martian grunts dove into the trench, immediately locking into melee with the human soldiers within. The close quarter fighting was brutal and vicious. Hale’s radio let loose a shower of sparks as it was hit by a handheld Heat Ray, the radioman frantically trying to pry off his ruined radio as he fell to his knees. For his part, Harrington continued to fire plasma rounds at his attackers, putting one through the apelike head of the one that had just killed Private Atkins.

Harrington went to fire at a Martian grunt rushing for him, only for his pistol to click empty. Before the novice captain could react, the alien tackled him to the ground and pressed it’s weapon down on his throat. Harrington briefly looked up into the humanoid creature’s large, wild eyes, then bashed the bottom of his fist into the inside of it’s elbow. The Martian soldier collapsed on top of him and the young officer followed the blow up with a strike to where the creature’s kidney should be, unfortunately that particular piece of biology apparently differed. Unfazed, the Martian soldier again began to strangle Harrington with his (its?) weapon, this time bending at the elbow to avoid another effective strike. The creature leaned low and howled in the captain’s face as his vision began to darken at the edges.

“Get off ‘im!” the Martian grunt looked up just in time to see Private Everly’s boot slam into its face, roughly knocking it off Harrington. The captain back crawled a half step away and breathed deep as Everly violently bayonetted his downed attacker.

“You a’right, sir?” Lance Corporal McCourt asked, offering his hand to help his captain up. Harrington nodded and allowed the Ulsterman to help him to his feet. McCourt gave him a supportive nod before he and Everly moved to help re-secure the trench. Looking around, Harrington was glad to see his men had largely driven their attackers out. The captain reloaded his weapons as his color sergeant approached.

“Captain, the artillery’s slowing their machines, but they’ll right on top of us shortly,” Graham reported.

“Dammit,” Harrington muttered, before remembering he was supposed to be an officer and gentleman, and curbed his fear, “We’re overrun, Color Sergeant, get the men organized and ready to pull back on my order.”

As Harrington’s men withdrew, lest they face the Fighting Machines’ Heat Rays at point blank range, similar scenarios began to play out all along London’s southern and western defenses. Farrier only just avoided being fried by the same blast that killed Mitchell as his section withdrew and the Ladies Regiment was one of the last to pull back into London Proper.

Just on the edge of the city, Major Addington ordered the evacuation of one of several large ammunition dumbs set up to support the artillery positions around the city. “Step lively, lads!” the Major called to the soldiers hastily loading ordinance into wagons. “These shells will help defend London, but right now, this place is just one giant bomb!”

“Major!!” one soldier shouted. Addington turned just in time to see two soldiers blasted by a Heat Ray, the beam of which then struck the shells directly behind them. Near instantly, the explosive ordinance detonated, which in turn set off the entire ammo dump nearly simultaneously. The explosion could be heard all over London, it’s shockwave shattering windows and blowing soldiers on both sides off their feet. Addington and his men were avenged, however, if only somewhat. The Fighting Machine that had destroyed the ammo dump was destroyed by the very explosion it had caused.

#*#*#

As London’s outer defenses broke and fell, the Martian attack force advanced into the city, their horns sounding across Britain’s capital. The Fighting Machines fired numerous Black Smoke canisters into the city, aiming for rooftops and upper floors to do the most damage with the heavy toxin. Thousands died when Black Smoke settled into tunnels, basements, and other below ground structures they had tried to take shelter in.

As the Martians poured into the streets of London fierce, chaotic fighting erupted all over the city. At first, Flying Whales conducted strafing runs over human positions, but as clear battle lines evaporated, they ceased to be effective. Several long hours passed and when the sun began to set, the Martians began to scan the bloody urban battlefield with their searchlights, though they needn’t have bothered. As the fighting raged on, fires were sparked by Martian Heat Rays, human artillery, and a multitude of other sources. Left unchecked, the flames grew and spread until, as night fell, the sky was lit up by a hellish crimson glow so bright one could read at all hours of the night.

As the carnage between the two desperate armies raged on, Londoners who were either unable or unwilling to flee the city, cowered in any seemingly safe haven they could find. Across the city pockets of soldiers fought tooth and nail in the streets and buildings.

#*#*#

Molly Turner lay in her bed, her daughter, Julia, huddled up next to her. The sounds of gunfire, Martian horns, explosions, screams, and roaring fires could be heard from outside. The ominous red glow that now hung over all of London shown in from outside, even with the curtains drawn. Like thousands of other Londoners, Molly had no way of escaping the city or getting her daughter out. So instead, she’d made Julia the best dinner she could, with unlimited sweeties to boot, then let her frightened child into her bed without having to be asked. She pulled Julia close and began to sing while the battle raged on in the streets outside.

#*#*#

Farrier and Stafford fired several shots at a passing tripod, nearly close enough to their second story window to jump onto. The two soldiers waited for the Fighting Machine to turn toward them before Farrier signaled to Ashton.

“Ello.” the heavy weapons man pleasantly called as he stepped into view. Farrier swore he could see the Martian pilot flail it’s tentacles in surprise just before his friend worked the valve on his Steam Gun. The large weapon whistled as the steam was released and a fusillade of lead ripped through the machine’s eye shaped viewport and then its pilot.

#*#*#

Daniel Sutton dived behind a wagon, pulling his son, Ricky, along with him as a Fighting Machine fired it’s Heat Ray at them and other frightened Londoners fleeing through the streets. Once the heat had passed, Daniel looked to his son.

He was met with a blackened skeleton. Only the boy’s right hand, still clutched in Daniel’s, was still flesh. Only three hours before, Daniel’s wife, Stephanie, had fallen to the Black Smoke.

Daniel lay perfectly still for a few moments, then silently rose to his feet. He wordlessly stepped into the center of the street and slowly walked toward the advancing Martian machine.

#*#*#

Smyth and Livingstone braced themselves on either side of a window, Martian infantry milling around just outside. Smyth locked eyes with Yorke, softly asking, “Have you been able to get in touch with anyone?”

“Communications are rubbish all over the city, sergeant,” Yorke reported, “I can barely get a word or two to someone before I lose the single most of the time.”

“Dammit.” Smyth grumbled, she moved to address Read when Livingstone slammed her against the wall.

“Sergeant, lookout!” the posh girl shouted, shoving Smyth aside and raising her Tesla Rifle. Smyth had just enough time to see a humanoid Martian who’d had his weapon aimed at her standing in a doorway across the room before he was blown apart by a lightning bolt from Livingstone’s weapon. Outside, several enemy soldiers looked to the building in surprise before being cut down in an impromptu ambush.

As Read covered the door, Smyth looked to Livingstone and nodded in gratitude before they both went to fire out the window.

#*#*#

Having taken up positions along Baker Street, Harrington and his remaining soldiers fired at an advancing Fighting Machine, this one fitted with one of the cages Martians used to transport captives. Taking cover beside a stoop leading into an apartment, the captain nervously fired several explosive rounds at the Martian behemoth, the last one managing to crack it’s viewport. Harrington had only just reached for a fresh clip when Graham shoved him further into cover with a shouted warning.

Time seemed to almost freeze as Harrington saw his Color Sergeant hit by the Heat Ray’s blast. He could almost watch as Graham’s flesh was fried almost completely away and his bones underneath were charred. Frozen in fear and horror, the rookie officer had barely noticed one of the Fighting Machine’s tentacles reaching for him before it was too late. Harrington was barely able to draw his Plasma Revolver before he was lifted into the air. Despite his terror, three familiar words rose to the forefront of the captain's mind.

Timing is everything.

The young officer waited until the Martian pilot brought him close enough to examine it’s captive, so close he could just see the octopus like creature. Fighting back his fear, Harrington raised his sidearm and screamed as he fired repeatedly at the damaged viewport. After the third shot, the eye shaped screen shattered and the remaining shots sent burning hot plasma into Harrington’s tentacled captor.

#*#*#

Griffith, having long since abandoned his headquarters, stood beside one of the remaining field guns, helping the gunners to aim. “Not just yet, lads...not yet...FIRE!”

The gun fired, dealing a crippling blow to a sluggishly advancing tripod.

“Colonel, if you leave now, we may be able to get you out,” Alston offered.

“And where would I go?” Griffith asked, not looking away from the street he was helping to defend. “This is were I’m needed, if I can hold these beasts long enough to save even a few British citizens, then I don’t care if it costs my life.”

#*#*#

The fighting would continue until just before dawn, the exact number of human lives lost will probably never be known. Nevertheless, even after the military command structure had completely broken down, soldiers would continue to fight on with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on. It was the most brutal battle of the War of the Worlds.

As the sun began to peek over the horizon the next morning, massive pillars of smoke hung over the ruined city. The streets, so recently alive with chaotic activity were now eerily quiet and empty. There was only one sound to be heard on that cool London morning.

“UuulllaAAHHH!”

#*#*#

Smyth and the remnants of her platoon, only twenty eight young women in all, crouched at the bottom of a large mound of rubble that had once been an apartment, the blaring of a Martian horn sounding from the other side. The tired soldiers, exhausted and hungry, could hear other horns elsewhere in the city.

“Well, ladies, we gave ‘em a right proper fight, all of us,” Smyth looked over her remaining soldiers as she congratulated them, lingering a moment on Livingstone at the end. “Now, what’s say we give it one last go?”

Nodding in agreement, the female soldiers made sure their weapons were charged and readied themselves to rush up the ruble mound. On Smyth’s signal, they all rushed forward as quickly and steadily up the shaky footing as they could. The soldiers arrived at the top of the heap and took aim, determined to take down as many invaders as they could before the end.

Only to stop short at the sight of their enemies.

Arrayed before the women was three Fighting Machines; one standing idly, it’s metal tentacles swaying in the wind; one collapsed and propped up by a building; the last stumbling around in circles occasionally bellowing on it’s horn. Scattered around the laid low war machines were several humanoid Martian troops, some crawling or writhing but most lay still.

Almost disappointed, Smyth and her soldiers lowered their weapons and looked over the once mighty invaders. There was a brief moment of tension as the addled Fighting Machine approached, but it passed along with the large tripod as it simply continued to circle and blow it’s horn.

“UuulllaAAHHH!”

Finally, as the tripod began to approach for another lap, Livingstone turned to her companions, “It looks like they’re sick...Do you think this is what the Queen meant about them being destroyed by the smallest things?”

“Maybe...” Smyth muttered, herself at a loss for an explanation. 

“Do they even know we’re ‘ere?” Yorke asked no one in particular as the Martian behemoth neared the battle weary soldiers.

Read glanced at her friend then up at the passing tripod. She picked up a stone from beside her booted feet and threw it at the Fighting Machine with a shout of “Oi!”

The stone bounced of the side of the machine, causing it to come to a quick, wobbly stop. The soldiers again raised their Tesla Rifles, some sending nasty looks to Read, and awaited the Martian’s response. The tripod haphazardly began to turn toward the human combatants, it’s legs almost tangling as it did so. The tripod attempted to straighten itself, but only ended up swaying from side to side until finally it collapsed on it’s left side.

“It’s a miracle,” Livingstone softy said, some nearby soldiers nodding in agreement. Smyth briefly glanced up at the sky, then gently ordered her platoon to move out. 

Over the next hour, the female soldiers made their way cautiously through the rubble strewn streets, passing groups of Martians in similar states of poor health, even spotting crows picking at a tentacled Flying Whale pilot. Finally, the platoon heard their first sign of other people when they heard a rowdy rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’ coming from a pub called The Eloi. Smyth lead her troops inside, leaning their Tesla Rifles beside several MH Mk IIs and even a Steam Gun left by the door as they entered. 

Stepping inside the women were met by several jovial soldiers, one behind the bar serving his mates drinks. Once the celebrating men noticed their visitors, Smyth squared her shoulders and addressed the man behind the bar. “Just what’s going on here, Private...?”

“Farrier, madame Sergeant,” the soldier answered with sarcastic formality, “My mates and I have liberated this establishment in the name of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria-”

“Long may she reign.” Farrier’s companions chanted.

“And now we are enjoying the spoils.” the ad hoc barman finished.

“Sergeant, these men are looting,” Livingstone quietly said to Smyth.

“Yes and now so are we. C’mon girls, I think we’ve earned a few drinks,” Smyth gently seized Livingstone by the shoulder and pulled the blonde along until they were both seated across the bar from Farrier. “Care to pour some tired ladies a few drinks, Private?”

“Comin’ right up, Sergeant,” Farrier answered, already filling a mug. The two groups of relieved soldiers began to drink and mingle together. They chatted, drank, and soon began to sing and even dance in the vacated pub.

It was just as things began to reach a fever pitch when a tired and curious Captain Harrington and his remaining soldiers began to file in. Spotting the captain, Yorke’s eyes widened and she shouted, “Officer on deck!”

The mood quickly shifted and all in the room hastily turned to salute the young officer. Harrington returned the salute and raised his hands placatingly, “Please, everyone just relax...right now we’re all just tired people wanting to take a rest.”

Smyth and Farrier exchanged a look, then looked to the newcomers. Farrier gestured to the taps and asked “Pint of lager for you and your lads, captain?”

“We’d like that very much, thank you.” Harrington answered with a smile.

As the celebratory mood settled back in and a clamorous rendering of ‘God Save the Queen’ began to emanate from the pub, Colonel Griffith, now sporting a bandage over half his face and leaning on Alston for support smiled as he looked at the building.

“Should we do something about that, Colonel?” Alston asked the older man.

“No, lef-tenent, they deserve a bit of fun after suffering so much horror for so long,” Griffith then pushed himself off his aide and began slowly making his way unsteadily toward the singing. 

“Where ya goin’, sir?” Alston asked.

“The same place you are, Lef-tenent,” Griffith said, gesturing for Alston to follow, “For a drink.”

**Author's Note:**

> War of the Worlds is one of my all time favorite sci fi novels, and I actually also have a soft spot for the two novels. That said, I always wondered how things might have gone if the fighting was a bit less one-sided. This eventually led me to write this little story a couple years back. After stumbling back on it on my computer, I decided to finally post it here on AO3. Hope you enjoyed it, dear reader.


End file.
